


Wear Him Like a Habit

by sevenfists



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-11
Updated: 2008-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-28 09:58:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10828944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: Their first kiss isn't an accident. It's anticipated well in advance, discussed for weeks, argued over, second-guessed.





	Wear Him Like a Habit

Their first kiss isn't an accident. It's anticipated well in advance, discussed for weeks, argued over, second-guessed. Sam tries to talk Dean into getting counseling, but Dean says no way in hell is he going to talk about his non-existent issues with some over-paid head-shrinker, so Sam's forced to give up on that idea. Dean throws a few half-hearted punches and blushes every time he meets Sam's eyes. They bicker more than usual. They have weird conversations where what they say and what they mean are completely different—one time, Dean spends fifteen minutes going on about car repair before Sam realizes what he's actually talking about.

Sam's willing to tolerate Dean acting squirrelly, but only up to a certain point, and after a month of Dean putting it off and making awkward jokes about birth deformities, Sam realizes he's going to have to be the one to end the weird holding pattern they've settled into. They get back from dinner one night and he pushes Dean against the wall and kisses him. It's weird for a moment, their mouths pushed together at an odd angle, but then Dean adjusts and settles his hands on Sam's hips and kisses Sam until he's whimpering and grabbing helplessly at Dean's shirt.

"You like that, huh," Dean murmurs, lips against the fluttering pulse in Sam's throat and Sam wants to say something smart but he can't string two words together.

"Um," he says instead.

"Okay," Dean says, and pushes Sam away. "That's enough for tonight." He's hard in his jeans—Sam can _see_ it, and he can see the hot flush rising up Dean's neck, but Dean's still stopping. Dean's brushing the wrinkles out of his shirt and ambling into the bathroom, and Sam's still standing there, mouth open, trying to figure out why the hell Dean just put on the brakes.

It doesn't take him long to figure out that Dean gets off on being a fucking tease. He'll crawl into bed with Sam in the morning, when Sam's sleepy and warm and not at his most rational, and kiss all over Sam's chest and moan a lot and then roll out of bed again before Sam can gather his wits enough to pin Dean to the mattress and fuck some sense into him. Or he'll climb on top of Sam when they're watching TV in the evening and grind his hips against Sam's and get them both all worked up, and then lock himself in the bathroom and really ostentatiously jerk off—it's not just your garden variety grunting and cursing, it sounds like he's let loose a herd of elephants in there, and once Sam goes in to brush his teeth the next morning and finds the towel bar lying broken on the floor.

Probably the worst is when Dean "falls asleep" in the back seat of the car while Sam's driving, his jacket crumpled up beneath his head and his t-shirt riding up enough to show a strip of belly, and within ten minutes starts squirming around and pinching his nipples and grinding the heel of his hand against his cock, and Sam's so busy watching Dean come in his pants that he almost runs the goddamn car off the road.

"Whoops," Dean says, when he "wakes up." "Golly, that was quite a dream I had."

"I hate you," Sam says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

They stop at the next rest area so Dean can scrub out his pants in the sink, and Sam can jerk off into the toilet, feeling like a teenager with his pants around his ankles and his hand quick and rough on his dick. He hasn't jerked off this much since he was fifteen. It's ridiculous. Dean's the biggest cock-tease Sam has ever known, and that's saying something. Sam thinks about Jenna Sanders and the night he got to second base with her, the way his hands had looked against the creamy swell of her tits, and as much as he'd thought at the time that he would die if he didn't get to fuck her, he's pretty sure Dean's twice as bad. Dean's got that _mouth_ and a bad habit of sucking on his coffee spoon after he stirs sugar in. Or maybe it's not a habit at all, maybe it's just another thing that he's doing to drive Sam out of his fucking mind.

"Sammy?" Dean says, and Sam comes at the sound of his voice, classic Pavlovian reaction, his teeth digging hard into his tongue as he works himself through it.

" _Shit_ ," he says. "Okay, Jesus Christ, I'm coming, just let me—"

"Hah, you _dog_ ," Dean says. "You're jerkin' off in there, aren't you?"

"Yup," Sam says. He doesn't see any point in denying it, and maybe being honest about it will surprise Dean enough that he'll shut the hell up. Sam opens the door of the stall and wipes his messy hand on Dean's shirt. Dean goes pink, nostrils flaring, and the look on his face is more than makes up for the fact that Sam's going to spend the rest of the afternoon in a hot car, smelling his own spunk.

The thing about Dean is that he loves attention. He never got enough of it when he was a kid, too busy taking care of Sam and John to think about his own needs. Dean's emotionally stunted in a lot of ways; he equates physical intimacy with love, and uses his looks to get people to love him—to get them to give him what he mistakes for love. Sam knows this, and he's got a massive guilt complex about it, and so if Dean wants to wriggle around and put on a show, Sam's just going to have to put up with it. He's actually kind of glad that Dean's secure enough about their relationship that he doesn't feel the need to put out in order to get Sam to stay with him. Every time Dean rolls off him two minutes before they both come, every time he smirks and feels Sam up at a diner, Sam's saying to him, _I love you, I'm not going to leave you._ It's the only language Dean understands. Christ, they both need so much fucking therapy.

"Are you _sure_ you don't want to get some counseling?" Sam asks. "Like, couples therapy. We could work on our communication skills and improve our emotional closeness." He's being a smart-ass, but the thing is, he really does mean it.

"Yeah, shut up, Freud," Dean says. "You wanna go talk about your girly feelings, feel free. No way am I doing that shit. I'm a fuckin' rock, dude. I'm an _island_."

"Oh my God, you're paraphrasing Simon and Garfunkel," Sam says. "Seriously? Seriously, Dean?"

"They were the voice of a generation," Dean says, scowling. "Whatever, shut the hell up. I'm gettin' off at the next exit, I want some goddamn French fries."

They get French fries, and Dean slurps the salt and grease off his fingers, glancing over at Sam every thirty seconds to see his reaction. Sam stares back and lets his face show everything he's feeling, all the frustration and longing and idiotic, gut-wrenching love. If Dean wants to tease him for the rest of eternity, Sam will let him, and be glad he can have that much, that Dean's still with him and not dead or warped beyond recognition or repair.

Dean sings Aretha Franklin in the shower that night, hideously off-key as usual—Sam _knows_ Dean can sing better than that, but for some inexplicable reason he chooses not to—and comes out toweling at his hair, his bare feet oddly delicate against the rough brown carpet of their motel room. Sam drops his newspaper on the floor beside the bed and watches Dean. It's June, and they've got the door open, fresh breeze blowing through, and anyone could walk by and see Dean standing there, his cock soft against his thigh, the way he drops the towel on the floor and walks over to stand in front of Sam.

Sam swallows reflexively and touches Dean's hip. "We, uh. The door, you—"

"I'll close it in a minute," Dean says. He puts his hands on Sam's shoulders and leans down to kiss him, the dirtiest kiss Sam's gotten from him yet, all tongue and teeth and sharp noises. Sam strokes his hands up the backs of Dean's thighs and grabs his ass, two perfect handfuls, and he's going to do it, he's going to lose his mind and wrestle Dean onto the floor and lick him all over and get them both off, God, _spectacularly_.

"Better go close that door," Dean says, pulling away. He's hard, that bastard, he's hard and he's walking away from Sam anyway, and Sam flops back onto the bed and groans.

Dean ups the ante in Kansas City. He's doing his usual pre-bedtime romp around the motel room in nothing but his birthday suit, and Sam's lying on the bed watching him—he gave up on studied indifference weeks ago; they both know he can't pay attention to anything except Dean. He's lying there watching Dean saunter around the room with his toothbrush dangling from his mouth, and then Dean goes into the bathroom and comes out minus the toothbrush. He's holding a bottle of hand lotion and his eyebrows are furrowed.

"Take off your pants and roll over," Dean says. He stares at Sam for a moment and then grins. "This is gonna be fun."

It is. Dean slicks up his fingers and spends an eternity working Sam open, sliding his fingers in and out and around and deeper and twisting them until Sam's clawing at the bedspread and hoping he's still got some brain cells left by the time Dean's done with him. Dean murmurs to him the whole time, kissing soft words into Sam's neck and upper back, his fingers slowly turning Sam into an incoherent, gasping mess.

"Well," Dean says after a while, "I guess that just about does it." He pulls his fingers out and Sam seriously can't believe it. Dean must have a death wish. That's the only explanation.

"Dean," he says. He's not opposed to begging. "Dean, please, I can't, I've got to—"

"Bedtime," Dean says.

Sam doesn't know what to do. At first he thought Dean was scared, or that he still had reservations and just didn't want to talk about it anymore, but it's been weeks now and he's pretty sure Dean's being a sadistic asshole and fucking with him. Dean gets off on being in charge, and Sam can't push the issue because Dean will just pull out his maiden aunt routine and talk about how they shouldn't rush into anything. It would piss Sam off if he didn't understand that Dean's only doing it because of his crazy insecurities. It pisses him off anyway. He's never had blue balls like this in his entire life.

They spend a week in Alabama, in the middle of absolutely nowhere, and have to sleep in the car for two nights because there's only one motel in the area and it doesn't have any rooms available. The first night, Dean sleeps in the passenger seat; the second night, he joins Sam in the back. They're too big to share space anymore, but Sam doesn't mind teetering on the edge of the seat all night when he's got Dean so close, arm around Sam's waist and warm breath against the nape of Sam's neck.

They sleep late into the morning, and Sam wakes up sweaty and uncomfortable. He shifts on the seat and grunts at the pain in his neck, stiff from the way he slept.

"You awake?" Dean murmurs, his arm tightening around Sam's waist.

"Yeah," Sam says. "Kind of."

"Good," Dean says. He rubs his hand up and down Sam's belly, slow, languid motions, and then slips his fingers beneath the waistband of Sam's pants. It takes Sam a moment to realize that he's hard, and then he holds his breath, hoping that Dean's actually going to follow through this time, that he won't punk out at the last moment and leave Sam hanging.

Dean thumbs open the button Sam's jeans, tugs the zipper down, slides his hand inside. "Hmm," Dean says, closing his fingers around Sam's cock. "Not bad." His hand's rough and sweaty and it slides easily after a few strokes, his thumb spreading wet from the head. It's not the best handjob Sam's ever gotten—far from it—but Dean's hard against his ass and he's kissing Sam's neck and shoulder, and Sam grunts and twists his hips and manages to come all over Dean's fist before Dean gets any bright ideas about pulling away.

"Huh," Dean says, "wow, Sammy, been a while for you?"

"I can't believe you made me wait that long," Sam says.

Dean chuckles. "Anticipation is the best sauce."

"You just like tormenting me," Sam says. What's happening in his boxers right now is going to end in tragedy, but he can't bring himself to care, not after the best orgasm he's had within recent memory.

"Well, that too," Dean says. "You're cute when you're sexually frustrated."

"You'd better make it up to me," Sam says.

Dean laughs again and bites down on Sam's shoulder. "Trust me," he says, "I will."  



End file.
